


sunshine of your love

by downmoon



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Smut, hq rare pair weekend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4464764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downmoon/pseuds/downmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[It's the morning and just we two]</p><p> </p><p>fills for hq rare pair weekend</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ennotana/new

Despite it being the middle of winter, cold never really seems to settle over the city.  There’s too much energy, a steady thrum of hustle and bustle stirring up its own heat in the veins of Tokyo, for anything like _chill_ to set in.  It’s with that thought in mind that Chikara steps indoors, and instantly overheats, despite wearing the lightest sweater he owns underneath his jacket.  _Forget pretty metaphors_ , he thinks, _I'm gonna die from heatstroke in December_.

The problem in actuality is probably all the people, crammed into the art gallery, which is equal parts surprising and intimidating, for a college show. It's the first show he's actually displayed anything, and he’s _nervous_.  As much as he enjoys film and photography, and even the art history his classmates agonize over, art majors have to be much more rounded, which means design and life drawing and painting, things he’s not so confident in.  So many people, and his work is somewhere in this gallery, safely graded but up for praise or slaughter to the public eye. 

Chikara idly stomps slush from his boots, scanning quickly over the crowd, looking for-

Ah, there he is.

Akaashi is surrounded, of course, because he's brilliant, intimidatingly so, or would be, if Chikara didn't know how simple and straightforward he actually is. He waves when Akaashi's head tips in his direction, watches as he extracts himself from the circle surrounding him, meets him halfway in the middle of the room, before either of them can be absorbed into a group of stuffy art collectors.

"The wolves are out tonight, Ennoshita,” Akaashi says, pushing curls away from his forehead, “and they can’t seem to decide whether to compliment or critique."

“Great, that’s just...great.”

Akaashi’s hair is sticking up in wavy black tufts, and he looks ridiculous, except, he doesn’t.  The mess of his hair only adds to his overall vibe of aloofness, an appearance of effortlessness and simmering confidence that’s evident in the amused smile he’s trying to rub out with his hand.  Once upon a time, Chikara had found those smiles to be disarming, before he’d learned the depth of Akaashi’s teasing.  Now, it only serves to make him feel a little more nauseous, facing nonchalance when his own mind is in turmoil.

“They’ll pick up on your nerves if you don’t stop twisting the hem of your shirt like that, Ennoshita.”

Chikara frowns, his hands clutching into stillness on the edge of his sweater, and he tries very hard to will his stomach into stillness.

“All’s you have to do is stand next to your piece and tell the snobs off when they try to pull you apart.”

He snorts, but still follows when Akaashi starts to walk back towards the group of people he was talking to earlier. 

_You can do this, you can do this._

It turns out to be not so bad, shockingly, having a piece in the gallery.  He gets the opportunity to talk to some genuinely enthusiastic people, awkwardly receives a few compliments, avoids a few barbs.  He’s still more than ready to leave, though, and push the nerve wracking experience that his first show had been out of his mind with an awful movie and a good cup of tea, so he cranes his head over the crowd, looking for Akaashi so he can say goodbye.

Instead of spotting Akaashi, he hears “Chika-chan!” in a voice loud enough to make him jump, the shock of familiarity in a place so far from home spreading numb in his chest.

“Tanaka,” he breathes out, right before he’s being crushed into a hug that’s lifting him to his toes.

Tanaka's jacket is dusted with snow, and it presses cool against Chikara's skin, when he manages to gather himself and throw his arms around Tanaka's shoulders, a laugh bursting out of him.

"Are you surprised?" is what Tanaka asks, when he finally lets Chikara out of his embrace.

"Well, yeah! I thought you couldn't make it?"

Tanaka doesn't say anything, but there's a certain look in his eyes, a glint of secrecy.

"Don't give me that look."

"What look? I have no look."

"You do. _Stop_ it, you're freaking me out."

Tanaka guffaws, loudly, loud enough that some of the other people in the gallery look ruffled. Chikara can't find it in himself to care.

They stare at each other, when they’ve both quieted down, until Chikara tips his head, and Tanaka clears his throat.

"Oh, wow, Chika-chan!” he says, when Chikara’s piece has caught his attention, “is this you? Did you, uh-"

"Ah, yeah, that's from my design class. Photoshop, stuff like that, you know?"

Chikara's surprised to find the nervousness has settled back over him, as Tanaka looks over his piece, wide-eyed with something like wonder.

“It’s not a big deal,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. 

Tanaka still hears him, though, his gaze sliding over in Chikara’s direction, skepticism clear in the sharp curve of one raised eyebrow.

“You should take more pride in yourself, Chika-chan.  Hey!” Tanaka says, to a rather startled looking couple walking by, “my friend made this!  Isn’t it awesome?”

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t you want to have something like this hanging in your living room?  My friend, the _artist_ , could do something like this for you.  He’d make something that’d tie the whole place together.”  
  
“I’m sorry, he’s very excitable.  Hope you’re enjoying the show!”

The couple hurries off with strange looks on their faces.

“You’ve got the captain scowl on your face, Chika-chan.”

Chikara jabs him swiftly in the side.

-

“Hey, so,” Tanaka says, when they’re both taking a walk around the rest of the gallery, “Akaashi?”

“Yeah?  What about him?”

“You guys are pretty good friends, huh?”

“Yeah,” Chikara says, slowly, watching Tanaka from the corner of his eye.

Tanaka remembers Akaashi, he _knows_ that Tanaka remembers Akaashi from high school, but they’d only been reintroduced for something like a minute, before Akaashi’d been stolen away for another discussion.  Not enough time to make a judgment on the state of their friendship.

Tanaka’s jittery, which isn’t unusual, but his cheeks are pink, and he can’t seem to settle his gaze on one painting.

“ _Good_ friends?”  
  
Chikara narrows his eyes.  Maybe not enough time for a judgement, but certainly enough for an assumption that he’s not liking the sound of.

“I suppose.  What are you trying to ask, Tanaka?”

“Nothing!  Just...wondering.”

Chikara hums, frowning.  Tanaka’s rarely anything but transparent, so the sudden curiosity with no clear intent behind it is confusing.  Suspicious, and confusing.

Tanaka laughs a little, and starts talking about home.  Chikara recognizes it as a change of subject, but listening to familiarity is comfortable, and Tanaka’s narration makes him laugh.

He’s feeling very pleasant and warm by the time they make it through the gallery, impulse slipping into his tongue along with a reluctance to let a night of good company end.

“Hey, Tanaka,” he says, after they’ve both said goodbye to Akaashi, “you wanna hang out after this?  Go get something to eat, you know?”

“You...aren’t heading home?”

“No?  I mean, if you have to get back-”

“No, no!  It’s just, uh, Akaashi’s gone, so I thought, you know, you’d be heading home, too.”

Chikara stares, takes in the way Tanaka’s face is red and his shoulders are tense, and something shudders into place.

“You know, me and him- we’re just friends.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.  Friends.”

“But like, _friend_ friends, or just _friends_?”

Chikara stares very hard at Tanaka, until he groans, and ducks his face into his hands.  Chikara can’t help but laugh at him.

“You could’ve just asked.”

“I _know_ , but- agh!  Okay, forget I said anything.  Start over.  Yes, Chika-chan, I would love to hang out after this.”

“That’s better.”

He feels a little shy, when Tanaka’s hands fall away and he’s beaming as bright as the city.  He feels strange, seeing an old, dear friend like this in a brand new way, like he’s just unwrapped a treasure from beloved, but worn familiarity, and it stirs up a twirl of butterflies in his stomach, but he still smiles back.


	2. levken/hurt

“Hey, Kenma-san?”

“Hmm.”

“Do you miss Kuroo-san?”

Kenma’s forehead wrinkles a bit, but he doesn’t look up from his game, fingers still moving rapid-fire over the buttons of his console. 

It’s lunchtime, and Lev had spotted him slipping out into the courtyard, a request to eat lunch together mixed up somewhere in whatever else he was talking about.  Kenma doesn’t remember saying _sure, Lev, let’s eat together_ , but Lev’s become an overly-friendly barb in his second year, latching onto the people around him with a grin on his face and an endless stream of words pouring out of his mouth.

“Yes,” he says, eventually, even though the answer had floated to the forefront of his mind the instant Lev had asked the question.  It just feels strange admitting it out loud.

“Are you gonna go visit him?”

“What?”

“ _Are you gonna-”_

“I heard you, just- why are you asking?”

It’s been a week since he started school, less than five hours for Kuro, and he’s still not gotten used to the missing presence.  It’s left him empty, a hollowness he hasn’t been able to fill, not with texts, or phone calls, or skype conversations, a peculiar kind of pain that hurts him in the most subtle of ways.

“You’re best friends, aren’t you?  That’s what best friends do, go visit each other and send each other cookies and stay up all night on the phone talking about nothing.”

“Okay.  I think you’re watching too much TV, first of all.”

“I think I watch enough.”

“Okay, sure.  Second, Kuro’s in college; he’s bound to be busier than ever, and it’s not like I can just pick up and go on a four-hour train ride to see him.”

Kenma steals a glance at Lev, stretched out over the grass and probably smearing green stains into his white shirt, his vest pillowed under his head.  He looks thoughtful, or confused, maybe.  Sometimes it’s hard to tell with Lev. 

“But if you _could_ see him, you’d visit him, right?”

That actually makes him pause his game and properly look at Lev, whose gaze is somewhere in the clouds, his finger pointed like he’s tracing shapes.  It’s a very strange image to take in, the tranquility of Lev laced with the feelings that are stirring up in him, the loss he feels with the absence of his best friend. 

“Yeah,” he says.

They sit quietly for a while, after Kenma’s saved and quit his game to pick over the remainder of his lunch with his chopsticks.  He doesn’t like this sudden slice of perception that Lev’s shown, and he _doesn’t_ like this near-silent Lev.  He’s difficult to read, when his mouth is shut, and when Kenma glances over at him, he gets this prickle of a bad feeling, like Lev’s planning on doing something.  What exactly, he doesn’t know, but with Lev, no one can ever be sure.

-

“Kenma-san!”

He cringes when he hears Lev’s boisterous voice echo in the gym.  Maybe if he holds still, Lev wouldn’t notice him.  There was a dinosaur who could be tricked that way, wasn’t there, maybe-

“Kenma-san!  Did you not hear me?”

Lev has slunk up beside him, looming over him with a smile on his face.  His arms are behind his back, and Kenma is immediately wary.

“What do you want?”

 _“Eh?!_   Not even a ‘hello,’ Kenma-san?”

Lev doesn’t look too upset, nor does he wait for an answer.  He holds out his hand, something clenched in his fist, staring at Kenma with a smile on his face, until Kenma sighs and opens his own hand.

Lev makes a pleased little noise and drops a small plastic sphere into Kenma’s hand.  He cracks it open, and pulls out a tiny keychain, looks up with a question already on the tip of his tongue, but Lev’s on the other side of the gym, and Kenma’s left a bit dazed as practice begins.

It happens again the next day, and the next, and the next, Lev bringing him trinkets, candies, pencils.  On the fifth day, Kenma asks _why_ , to which Lev only smiles brightly.  He doesn’t bother asking again.

 

On the fifteenth day, Lev manages to corner him at lunch again, balancing a stack of plastic containers in his arms.

“Kenma-san!  Can I eat with you today?”

“I guess so.”

He plops gracelessly down onto the grass next to Kenma, spreading out his containers and talking to himself.  Kenma’s barely paying attention to him, taking advantage of this rare free moment to browse through his phone while picking over his lunch, but then Lev’s shoving some kind of bun under his nose, insisting that he take it.

“I made them last night, Kenma-san!”

“Oh.”

“It’s _vatrushka_ , from my mother’s family.”

“Okay.”

“I made them for _you_.  They’re really good!  I made them with apple, ‘cause you like apple pie so much, right?”

Kenma eyes the pastry, then Lev, then the pastry again, before taking a tentative bite.

It’s _good_ , unusual, but good.  He can’t tell Lev that, though, or he’ll flip out and work himself into a frenzy from the compliment.

“What’d you say these are?” he asks instead.  Lev’s face lights up nonetheless.

 _“Vatrushka_ , the most important of all the Russian desserts.  This recipe’s been in my mother’s family for years, hundreds of years, probably.  Maybe a thousand.”

It’s really quite amazing, how easily Lev can latch onto any glimmer of conversation, and essentially keep it going by himself.  Kenma doesn’t mind today, though, because the pastry is nice, and it’s kind of amusing to listen to Lev go on about his family.

 

On the twenty-fourth day, Kenma has finally reached a point of frustrated curiosity, rather than just simple indifference.  It’s been weeks of Lev following him around, giving him things, inviting him to hang out (which Kenma had agreed to only once, and didn’t regret as much as he thought he would), with no explanation other than a big smile.  Lev stands in front of him before practice, like he has for twenty three other practices, his hands tucked neatly behind his back, waiting expectantly for Kenma to hold out his hand.  Kenma has twenty three other trinkets lined up on his windowsill at home, soon to be twenty four, and seeing them every day had worn him down from a charming curiosity into deep annoyance.

“Why are you doing this?” he says, although it comes out in more of a snap than he had intended. 

Whatever, he stayed up too late waiting for Kuro’s skype call, one that turned rushed far too soon for Kenma’s own satisfaction.  He can be a little snappy today.

Lev looks confused for a moment, a bit like a puppy wondering why there’s no treat being offered.

“Do you not like the things I’ve been bringing you, Kenma-san?  I picked them out ‘cause they all reminded me of you.”

“No, _why_ do you keep bringing me things.  And following me around.  And inviting me to hang out.”

Oh!”

Lev’s hands slip from behind his back.  Kenma can see the spherical container in Lev’s hand, another keychain probably, like the one he got the first day.

“Well, you’re lonely right?” he says, and Kenma panics momentarily.

No one was supposed to be able to see that, not after he’d made sure to carefully cover up his feelings after that first lunch with Lev.  No one was supposed to know how empty he’d felt without Kuro’s constant presence, the ache of expecting a comforting presence that’s no longer around.  But here was Lev, standing gangly and awkward in front of him, apparently having a much closer read on Kenma than he’d thought possible.

“Why do you say that?”

“Kuroo-san is gone.”

Trust Lev to get right to the blunt point.

“I’d be lonely, too, if my best friend went away to university.  So I thought I’d be your best friend until you can see him again!”

Kenma stares up at Lev’s unwavering, bright face, his mind momentarily blank, until the past month finally catches up to him, and the smallest blush starts to spread hot across his collarbone.

“You don’t have to do that,” he murmurs, looking down. 

Lev’s attention, the _realization_ of Lev’s attention, makes him feel strange, like he’s mentally torn between the urge to shrink away and sneak a little closer.

“You like it, though, don’t you?” Lev asks.

“No.”

“Kenma-san!”

“It’s not...bad, I guess,” he concedes, because truthfully, it’s not.

Lev holds out the container, and Kenma accepts it, carefully opening it.  Lev coos over the keychain Kenma pulls out, and launches into chatter about who knows what, pausing when the coach is calling them all to start drills, picking right up where he’d stopped during practice as soon as it’s over. 

On the twenty-fourth day, Lev walks with him to the train station for the first time, and, on the twenty-fourth day, Kenma, maybe, feels a little less hollow.


	3. iwasuga/intimate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating goes up because of this chapter ohoho~

“Suga-chan’s leaving tomorrow.”

Oikawa’s looking at him, all softly expectant, when Hajime turns his head.

“For a _whole_ semester, Iwa-chan-”

“Yeah, I’m aware.”

He turns his attention back to the game they’re playing, but it’s lost some of its fun, now that his stomach feels leaden again.  He’d almost managed to forget about it, in the span of time since Suga had left the couch to get ready for bed, but now it’s creeping back up on him, the inevitable.

“I can go with you to the airport,” Oikawa says, eyes back on the TV, his tongue slipping out in concentration.

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind,” he says, ducking his head against Hajime’s shoulder in a brief nuzzle, “I don’t want you to be miserable the whole drive back.”

“I’ll be miserable if you’re there.”

“Iwa-chan!”

Oikawa shrieks as his kart goes flying off the edge of the map.  Hajime laughs, Oikawa pouts, but they both start up another round, and play until they’ve tied, 6 wins each, and their eyes ache from staring at the TV.

 

Suga’s already showered and drowsy and tucked into Hajime’s bed, when he slips into his room.  He stirs just enough to slowly lifting the blankets so Hajime can crawl under the covers.

“Hey you,” Suga says, as they settle against each other.

“Hey yourself.”

“Did you win finally?”

“What do you mean, _finally?_   I am excellent at Mario Kart.”

Suga hums, pressing his mouth against Hajime’s bare shoulder, leaving a damp, hot mark against his skin.  The silence is filling his head, edging him closer towards sleep, Suga warm against him, and he’d be content to slip off like this on the last night, but Suga’s thumb is brushing a restless pattern on the side of his neck, and his mouth still burns hot on his skin.

“Are you really gonna go to sleep with no sex tonight?” Suga asks, and-

He can’t help the laugh that rumbles out of him, what with Suga’s prissy little tone and the pinch of his fingertips.

“You’re the one that was already curled up in bed.”

“Yeah, but I’m _naked_.  In _your_ bed.  I thought you knew me better than this, Hajime.”

He slips his arm around Suga’s waist and rolls, Suga’s laughter falling out of his mouth softly, until Suga’s settled over him, bare-skinned and lovely.

“Guess you’re gonna have to teach me a lesson, _Koushi_.”

“Ooh, a challenge.”

Suga dips his head to kiss him gently, the barest press of lips, hands cupping Hajime’s face.  He lets his fingers run idly down Suga’s sides, dragging them in wide circles across his back, tilting his head up for another kiss.

Suga puts a little heat into it, this time, a taste of teeth when Hajime opens his mouth, fingers sliding up into his hair.  Hajime settles his hands around Suga’s hips, pulling him closer, shifting enough that Suga whimpers against his mouth.

“Why are you still dressed?” he says, hands still twisted in Hajime’s hair, voice low enough that he shudders.

Hajime takes that as his cue to slip out of his boxers, kicking them off somewhere in the sheets.  Suga sighs when he feels Hajime’s bare skin, grinding his hips delicately until Hajime sighs, too.

He rolls them again, so Suga’s pinned underneath him, chasing after his mouth until they’re kissing, a little more dizzying, more frantic, more heat, more everything.  Suga whines when Hajime grinds down on him, a high-pitched hiccup swallowed up by his heavy breaths.

“You have to be quiet,” Hajime says, biting back a laugh when he reaches between them, and drags a low groan out of Suga’s mouth.

“You’re horrid,” he says breathlessly, even as he’s pulling Hajime closer.

“That’s not what certain parts of you think.”

He pulls away, running his mouth in a long, wet line down Suga’s skin, pausing briefly to suck a mark over Suga’s hipbone, once again to bite at his thighs. 

“Don’t _tease_ , Hajime,” Suga says, petulant, arching his hips in a not-so-subtle hint of what he wants. 

Still, he takes his time, ghosting his mouth over Suga’s hips, his thighs, his stomach.  He licks a hot stripe over Suga’s cock, arousal burning through him when Suga quivers, fingers curling in Hajime’s hair, then slides his mouth over the top.

Suga huffs out some garbled noise, biting his own hand to keep himself quiet, as Hajime presses down further, one hand coming up to slide underneath Suga’s thigh, until it slips over Hajime’s shoulder.  He sinks down slowly, slowly, until he can feel Suga at the back of his throat, then pulls up slowly, slowly, running his tongue over the head again and again, until Suga’s shivering and moaning against his own hand, fingers twisting tight in Hajime’s hair.  It only takes a few more slow sucks, before Suga’s hand clenches tightly and he curves prettily, mouth falling open as his whole body goes through one long shudder. 

He lets Suga flop bonelessly on the bed, and grabs a wad of tissues to wipe at the mess on his stomach, watching the quick rise and fall of his chest.  Hajime feels a little electric, all over, want aching in every touch to Suga’s skin.  He lowers himself over Suga until they’re near flush against each other, kissing him slow and hot, prying his mouth open until he gasps.

“I want you,” Hajime whispers, half a growl in his effort to keep his voice down.

He feels the drag of Suga’s fingertips against his jaw soften into featherlight touches, and the shift of his legs spreading, and another flame of arousal rushes over his whole body.

“Have me,” Suga says, already fumbling for the nightstand drawer.

Hajime kisses him hard enough to push him up the bed.  Suga presses the lube into his hand, and he only tears himself away from Suga’s mouth because he can’t wait anymore.

He groans out loud when his fingers slip easily inside of Suga’s body.

“I’m fine, Hajime, I’m ready, _ah_ , I already took care of it in the shower, god, come _on_.”

He groans again at the picture that presents, his pretty Suga fucking himself open on his own hand, and pushes slowly forward.  Suga whines softly on the edge of each breath, one hand on Hajime’s back, the other clawing at his shoulder.  Hajime does his best to push steady, even as Suga’s ankle digs into his lower back, trying to urge him forward.

“Oh _god_ ,” he breathes out “oh god, oh god, fuck, Suga, _fuck.”_

They’re both shuddering against each other, damp and slick with sweat, Suga gasping wetly against the shell of Hajime’s ear.  He pulls back slightly, rocks forward, slow, even strokes that soon turn quick, and rough, and unravel them both. 

“Harder, baby, come on,” Suga’s whispering, filthy mouth dragging wet kisses against Hajime’s neck, and his hips falter, shooting a bolt of pleasure straight up his spine, Suga ripping marks into his back.  He braces himself on one arm, and runs his hand down the soft slope of Suga’s leg, hoisting it up and angling them both until Suga cries out and writhes beneath him.

His orgasm crashes through him quite suddenly, almost catching him by surprise.  He grits his teeth when his hips jerk forward, swallowing down the moan stirring in his throat, and feels nothing but a rush of warm pleasure over his entire body.  His body is sinking into drowsiness when he pulls out, but Suga’s still working a hand over himself, back arching in gentle slopes off the mattress.  Hajime presses a finger inside of him, and Suga gasps harshly, grinding down, until he comes with a soft whimper.

It takes him a few minutes to rouse himself enough to clean them both up, and then another minute to prod at Suga until he rolls over, wrapping his arms tightly around Hajime’s waist and settling against his chest.

“God, I’m gonna miss that,” he says.

Hajime laughs weakly, his breathing still not quite back to normal.

“You and me both.”

“Well,” Suga says, “a semester’s not all that long.”

“Mhmm.”

“And we’ll both be busy with our studies.”

“Mhmm.”

“So really, time will just fly by.  And before you know it-”

Suga stops abruptly, his grip around Hajime tightening in the slightest way.  When he speaks again, his voice is low and soft and wavering.

“I’m really going to miss you, Hajime.”

A thousand things swim up to the forefront of his mind, words of reassurance and encouragement and devotion, but none of them are _him_ , and Suga deserves more than words lacquered in false sincerity.

“I’ll miss you, too,” is what he settles on, and it feels rough and awkward coming out of his mouth, but it’s real, and it’s honest, and it’s the best he can do, for someone like Suga.


	4. bokukuro/ardor

He’s considering getting another coffee, just for something to do, because this waiting?  It’s killing him.

That screaming kid two benches over isn’t even bothering him anymore, because Tetsurou kinda wants to scream himself.  A half hour of waiting for a late train does that to people.

“Come _on_ ,” he says under his breath, flicking open his lock screen on impulse. 

Just like the last time he’d checked.  Nothing since a text ten minutes ago about the late train.

Tetsurou tucks his phone away, and makes a conscious effort to stop the jittering of his leg.  There’s an old lady looking at him- he keeps catching her glances from the corner of his eye- with a serene smile on her face, like she’s ready to start spouting off some quiet words of advice to anxious youth, and _normally_ , he really wouldn’t mind.  He likes talking to people, but he’s not in the mood for it today.

He gets up with a sigh, throws away his empty paper cup, and starts another long session of pacing, weaving his way through crowds of people in the bustling station.

Tetsurou’s not used to this intensity of emotion; typically, he could’ve spent that half hour killing off another level in that weird game _someone_ downloaded onto his phone, but it’s the waiting, the anticipation that’s turning him into a high strung mess, the knowledge of reunion in moments instead of days that’s set all his thoughts racing and his heart thumping in his chest.

He barely catches the sound of his phone jingling in his pocket, but he’s pulling it out almost before it stops making noise, flicking it open and staring at the screen.

_5b!!!!!!!!!!!_

He doesn’t run, because that would be rude, and running all the way from 8 to 5b is a collision waiting to happen.  So he doesn’t run, not until he spots a familiar tuft of hair in the sea of people.  His body sort of launches forward of its own accord, all that pent-up anguish of anticipation turning to jittery elation, the kind of pure joy that only Bokuto can draw out of people.

He knows the exact moment that Bokuto spots him, because he hears _“Tetsu!”_ shouted out over the noise of the station, ringing like a sweet bell, loud and clear, and then he’s crashing into Bokuto’s widespread arms, and all the breath’s being squeezed out of him.

“Finally!” Tetsurou says, when he can breathe a little better.

“I know!  There was some electrical problem on the car or somethin’, I don’t know. Whatever.  Oh jeez, please tell me we can stop somewhere, I am _starving_.  I had no time to get anything before the train left, Tetsu, _no_ time!”

Tetsurou grunts when Bokuto flings a bag into his chest, but trails along behind him as he shoulders his way through the crowd, voice steadily chirping over whatever wandering trail his conversation has taken.  That intense feeling is back, settling in pleasant numbness in his veins, clutching at his breath and his heart, pounding hot in his blood when Bokuto loops his arm around Tetsurou’s neck, and kisses him in the shadows.

“Missed you,” he murmurs against Tetsurou’s mouth, as dark and heavy as the cool concrete corner he’d dragged them into.

“Missed you more.”

Bokuto looks up at him with a glimmer in his eyes, the weight of promise. 

“Prove it.”

Tetsurou smiles sharp, tasting the challenge Bokuto’s just laid out between them.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

-

Tetsurou wakes up alone.

He’d gotten used to it in the time that Bokuto was gone, so it’s nothing unusual, but then his brain catches up to reality and a warm little thrill shoots up his spine.

He takes his time rolling out of bed, dragging himself to the bathroom.  All his impatience from yesterday has dissipated, turned into content laziness.  There’s a whole day ahead of them to make up for lost time, no need to rush things.

“Morning,” he says, still sleep-groggy when he steps into the living room.

Bokuto’s sitting at the window, on the deep-set sill that’s turned the window into a cozy little nook in the apartment.  They _used_ to try cultivating plants on that sill, because the spot was perfect, but neither one of them had the patience or attention to keep anything alive longer than a month, so the sitting nook it’s become.

Bokuto turns when Tetsurou slips into the room, soft morning light glowing like gold around him.

“Tetsu, hey.”

“Sleep alright?”

“ ‘Bout average, I guess.”

Tetsurou ducks into the kitchen for tea, pleased to find that it’s already made.  Less than a day that Bokuto’s been back, and they’re already slipping into their old habits.

He shuffles Bokuto’s legs out of the way, when he returns to the living room, and slips into the space left on the sill, crossing his legs, so that they sit facing each other, knees pressing together.

“You’re up awfully early, aren’t you?” he says, sipping at his tea.

“Huh?  Oh, yeah, just restless, I guess.”

Tetsurou watches Bokuto carefully over the rim of his mug, the curl of his fingers under his chin, warm summer freckles spread across his knuckles and the slope of his cheeks.  He’s looking out the window with a wrinkle in his forehead, and Tetsurou can almost see the thoughts spinning in his head.  He’s curious, almost desperately so, as to what had driven Bokuto out of their warm bed, but he keeps his tongue bitten behind his teeth.  He can wait.

“Hey- Tetsu?”

“Hmm?”

Bokuto turns to face him, all copper-eyed and bed-wild hair, and Tetsurou’s breath is speared thick in his chest.  He’s falling apart, bursting into tiny fragments, swept up in a storm twisting through his heart, all because of Bokuto, _Koutarou_.

Bokuto clears his throat, his gaze flickering down, before he steels himself.

“So, okay, obviously this apartment is great, ‘cause you know how it’s close to that noodle place I like, and the buses, oh!  And that lady with the chickens down the street, she’s cool-”

“Kou, bring it back.”

“Will you move in with me?”

Tetsurou’s jaw clicks shut, steam billowing  up over his face from the mug he’s still holding to his mouth.

“But we already live together.”

 _“No!”_ Bokuto says.  He tightens his legs, and their knees clunk together.

“I mean like, _move in_ with me.  Not as roommates.”

“Not as-?  Oh.”

Tetsurou has to look away, because Bokuto’s eyes are so bright.  It’s like watching the sun, this boy, the brightest star in Tetsurou’s entire world.

“...please say something.”

“Well, you know,” he starts, stops, clears his throat, “You know, all’s we have to do is turn my room into a spare.  ‘S not like I’ve slept in there in the past year, anyway, so-”

“So?”

“So.  I guess we have a guest room now.”

Bokuto’s face splits into a wide smile, pure, genuine happiness lighting iridescent gold in his eyes, and he almost knocks both their mugs to the floor when he lunges forward to kiss Tetsurou.

Bokuto may love everyone he’s ever met, but in that moment, their moment of quiet sunshine in the bay window, he loves Tetsurou most of all.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](downmoonwrites.tumblr.com)   
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